He placed his hand on Henry’s head and prayed aloud. ‘Nothing can separate us from your love, O Lord. Thank you for releasing us from the bondage of believing we are worthless and rejected . . .’

‘Up there . . .’ Henry’s voice coarse from the heaving.

The moon had escaped cloud cover and silvered the canopy of branches. ‘Up there, the heavenly realm, and here, O Lord, am I, a worm awaiting your claim. Will you have me?’

‘He will have you, Henry.’

‘“Living darkly, with no ray . . .”’

Their voices mingled on the night air.

‘For you, Lord,’ he prayed, ‘have not given us the spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind . . .’

‘“. . . and quickly killing every trace of light,”’ Henry whispered, ‘“I burn myself away.”’

•   •   •

‘HARD TO ASSESS,’ said Wilson. ‘No way to know how much or when he took it, he’s too confused to tell us anything.’

‘What was it?’ said Dooley.

‘Acetaminophen and diphenhydramine. The empty bottles were in the pocket of the jacket you brought in. It’s a common mix for the suicide demographic who prefer ingestion.’

‘He left the house at six,’ he said. ‘There were empty water bottles with him on the trail. Let’s say he got the stuff down right away. We found him at one-thirty, one-forty . . .’

‘It’s three forty-five now,’ said Dooley, ‘so around ten hours.’

‘The tests show thickened blood,’ said Wilson, ‘some liver damage, and the kidney function is off. We hung a couple liters of saline on him, gave him an antidote, and the chopper will have him to Winston in forty-five minutes—before five, say, or about eleven hours from the overdose. Twelve hours out and he’s in big trouble. So by a hair, by a hair.’

The doctor he’d recently thought a cub looked pretty old right now.

‘What about ID?’ asked Dooley.

‘On his wrist. A band.’

‘Dad notified his wife.’

‘She’ll have to get here fast.’

‘She won’t be coming,’ he said.

‘Not even the children know what’s happening,’ she’d told him on the phone. ‘I’ve lived the last thirty-four years putting a good face on things for Henry. It’s useless for me to come, for there’s no longer a good face to be put. I love Henry more than life, Father, but I will go through with the divorce. I declare the agony ended forever on this terrible night. I’m sorry—for everything. Thank you for all you’ve done.’

‘I hope we can keep this quiet,’ he told Wilson.

‘Nobody will hear it from me, but I can’t make promises for anyone else. You know the Mitford grapevine.’

They waited in the hall for Talbot’s gurney. ‘My son’s going to be a doctor,’ he said, proud.

Wilson eyed Dooley with approval. ‘You’ll make a good one, I’m sure. Your speciality?’

‘Animals,’ said Dooley. ‘Not people.’

The doctor volunteered a grin. ‘Animals are people, too.’

•   •   •

THE CHOPPER USED TO LAND in Baxter Park; now there was a helipad on the roof of the hospital. He read again the bronze plaque at the door of the elevator to the pad: A GIFT OF THE IRENE AND CHESTER MCGRAW FAMILY. He remembered that Chester had been flown to Charlotte from the pad he funded, and died en route.

Cutcutcutcutcutcut . . .

At 4:10, the machine lifted off the roof of Mitford Hospital and, in the starless night, burned itself away.

Chapter Fourteen

He had called the bishop at seven-thirty to brief him on the harrowing circumstances of last night.

‘This changes everything,’ Jack Martin had said. ‘I’ll meet you in the vestry a little earlier, say ten-fifteen, we’ll celebrate together. The Lord be with you.’

According to Bill Swanson, Bishop Martin was not only never late, but known to arrive early. Now he was late by more than forty minutes. In alb and stole, he paced the confines of the minuscule room where the choir changed, the priest vested, offerings were counted, and, occasionally, an anxious bridegroom waited.

Bill Swanson’s face was beet-red as he rushed into the vestry and closed the door. ‘Bishop Martin can’t make it, Father. He just got cell phone service. A rockslide on the mountain, quite a few people badly injured. Very serious. No cars getting through, he says.’

He stared as if the senior warden had spoken in another tongue. On every side, wreckage. Debris hurtling into the air and then falling, falling . . .

Bill Swanson’s left eyelid twitched. ‘Bishop says tell you to carry on. What can I do?’

‘Pray.’

‘Say as little as you can, would be my thinking, Father, and let the vestry handle the rest at the parish meeting. All hell will break loose when they get the details. No need for it to break loose in the eleven o’clock.’

The congregation wouldn’t know what to make of seeing Tim Kavanagh in the pulpit; they would be heartily up for the flamboyance of the bishop’s mitre and crozier, and for learning what Talbot had in mind for the bishop’s unexplained visit. They would have the momentary shock of the old priest to work through, which would, perhaps, condition them for the blow to follow.

He could go head down into the wind and make the announcement before the opening hymn. But no, the opening hymn would give them all a chance to settle in and connect with whatever familiar words had been selected. It was a packed house, with people sitting on chairs in the aisle and standing at the rear, the usual case with a visit by the bishop. Something was up, everybody knew that much.

‘I’m ready,’ he said to Bill. Exhausted, strung out, wired, and ready.

Bill Swanson was reeling from this, but thumping him on the back with good cheer. ‘When th’ bishop can’t make it, Father, God himself shows up.’

He embraced Bill and walked from the vestry into the nave and bowed to the cross and ascended the steps to the altar and the organ played and he turned to the people and lifted his hands for them to stand. They rose with a great swoosh, as a single body, and he opened his mouth and the words learned as a child came forth with sweet accord.

When morning gilds the skies

My heart awaking cries

May Jesus Christ be praised!

When evening shadows fall

This rings my curfew call

May Jesus Christ be praised . . .

‘Blessed be God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,’ he said.

‘And blessed be his kingdom,’ the people said, ‘now and forever.

‘Amen.’

‘Almighty God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid: cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord.’

‘Amen.’

He felt his heart pierced through; the terrible constriction in his throat. His wife knew something had gone wrong. From the second row, gospel side, she gave the sign that she was praying—a slight raising of the forefinger of her right hand held against her cheek. And there was his dazed and sleep-deprived son sitting next to her, and thank God for his support.

‘Bishop Martin is unable to join us this morning. He sends his profound regret from a scene of unthinkable tragedy on the mountain—a rockslide gravely injuring many people. The bishop is unhurt, but traffic will be delayed for some time.

‘We must remember Bishop Martin in our prayers and those who, though unknown to us, are yet brother and sister in this mortal flesh. We ask God for his great mercy upon all whose lives were changed this morning on the mountain . . . and for each of us gathered here today.’

The word mercy struck a chord among the congregants. Why would they need God’s mercy in the same measure as those poor souls in the rockslide?

‘I am grieved to say there is more to tell you this morning. But before it is spoken, I bid you listen carefully to what our Lord Jesus Christ saith: